


A Sense of Unity

by OverthinkingAntagonizing



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Just a family of snarks and irony, THIS IS NOT DERSECEST THEY ARE NOT DATING, Ugh, gfdi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-11
Updated: 2018-04-11
Packaged: 2019-04-21 15:45:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14288199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OverthinkingAntagonizing/pseuds/OverthinkingAntagonizing
Summary: Rose and Dave are both very famed, each in their medium.They have a talent for causing trouble, too.





	A Sense of Unity

**Author's Note:**

> This is a short one shot of my favourite alpha guardians. N o t a ship. Bleh

Rose Lalonde is a well known woman, with a spotless record of sarcastic probbing. So her coming up to him, both as famous stars of popular, vague and befuddling media was as surprising as you would expect. He has a reputation to keep as well. Dave Strider, genius by his own right. What was surprising though, was her words to him- she says the future is hers to observe, that memories of lives she never lived fill her and that they are blood- and their children will be too.  
She has a reputation, of course. Her jokes are nothing but classy yet sharp sarcasm, delivered with severe soberity. But never something like this. Her MO includes applies snark and he's aware of it all perfectly well. You have to read people like a book, know every word about every big name to get yourself far in Hollywood, especially with his kind of premise. And so, he does not understand her motive. Obviously, he does not believe her, but for the sake of irony and image he plays along.  
  
She also knows him perfectly well as well, because Rose Lalonde does her research, and she knows he must keep up his unique act. She uses the people gathering around such two famous figures to force him to schedule a meeting with her, uses the drama she stirred with her statement to push him to choose the most ironic and ridiculous option- pretending he is entirely in the know.  
  
And of course he has to go. He has a reputation after all.  
  
And so they meet in her ridiculous riverside mansion, and she sits him down at her lonely kitchen that reminds him too much of his empty penthouse, which sometimes feels like it's short one person, even though he never invested in interpersonal relationships. He never had anyone there often enough to feel their loss. Her words make too damn sense for being so senseless  
  
And she lays out her every word carefully, like the writer she is, delivering every verbal punch precisely and painfully right where it is almost too familiar for him not to believe her even though he has no recollection.  
  
He leaves. Goes home. It's even emptier. It's hollow. He convinces himself, or so he thinks, that she was a mad writer who can't distinguish reality from fiction anymore. He doesn't sleep. He works on his next comic page, because as big as he became he never left that good old site where everything felt like home and he could cry his heart out on the pages and cover it up with jpg artifacts so no one would suspect.  
  
And she is left alone in an empty house, full of drinks and nothing to fill a void that is so clearly there, clear as daylight.  
  
She doesn't sleep. She sits at her desk, pen in hand, and once again when she tries to start her next book all that comes up is names she never heard and clothes she never seen embroidered with signs she never witnessed. And she cries into the night for the things she knows she lost.  
  
The next time they meet they are old friends, even though they haven't seen each other since. There is a sense of solidarity even the paparazzi can feel. Rumors spread.  
  
They don't battle the rumors. When asked, they call are siblings. When compared and contrasted, they playfully trademark family secrets.  
  
He lies to himself. He says he doesn't believe her. They both know that is not true.  
  
He helps her. She has someone to unload her prophesies to. He listens, and it sits with him for the rest of his life.  
  
Their styles of writing changes. His works turn darker, grimmer, filled with more underlying meaning that requires less of an ironic mind and more of an analytical one to figure out. Her works gain a taste of ridiculous nihilism that demands the reader expand their horizons.  
  
They work together. Next time they meet in public and she whispers to him that their children are going to need a home, he doesn't say a word, just nods lightly. The next day he owns an entire building, and starts renovations for it to stand the rising of the sea. She starts applying upgrades to her own home. It needs to float, after all.  
  
They stand by each other. By that point the world does not deny their sibling-ship. No one thinks they are unrelated. They are simply too connected. Too powerful, side by side.  
  
When he buys the building, he stops lying. He can't deny he believes every word. He starts eating himself up, for lying to himself, for believing this nonsense. She somehow knows. Perhaps because she reads every page he publishes.  
  
She sits him down again, and tells him of days he never been through. Of friends he never met. He is desperate to hear more.  
  
She doesn't say a word about the older brother who never came out with a scratch from their rooftop strifes. Nothing about the desperation of his other, winged self. She knows he needs a dream, not another scar.  
  
He adds two new characters in his next entry. He makes a saga spanning 4 pages of unintelligible artifact plot with them. They wear lime green and a light, friendly blue.  
  
One day he wakes up beside his computer, cold sweat covering every inch of his skin. He reaches for his phone, but a moment before he dials, he is already receiving her call.  
  
She tells him they have to fight. They have to be louder. They have to be noticed. She says she can't do it alone. She says he was always louder than her. He agrees.  
  
Next time they are in public, he's holding a sword and making a lunatic's speech about the dangers of clown cults to his many devoted fans, live on television. Most regard it as a publicity stunt. Few conspiracists take it to heart.  
  
Rumors spread. Fingers are pointed. They will never know how much they truly did, for giving a name to the chilling silence under the veil of society that too many have already noticed.  
  
She already knows. They will never win. They will die trying, so much is fact. But she doesn't need to tell him, because knowing or not, he will go down fighting, and so will she.  
  
They publish more than ever. Elements from each of their works seep into each other until they are making a unified statement, each with their own unique language.  
  
When the time comes, they pick up their weapon of choice, and their battle turns to melee. They fight, knowing they will lose, but their children will prevail. Knowing the war they will win needs this battle be lost. Separated, together, they reach peace. They are willing to make the sacrifice.  
  
When they die, they do so away from prying eyes. They disappear from the public eye, each taking a last stand against a tyrannical clown, and never to be seen again. They die separated, hiding, unwilling to give anyone the satisfaction in watching their defeat- but they are full, and at ease, and ready for the end. The void has been filled. With merely a ghost image of what it used to be, but it was more than either ever had. They died together, alone, and they were ready to let go, so their descendants can fight the next fight.


End file.
